


Gods and Men

by buckybleeds



Series: Alphabet Soup [9]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt Bucky Barnes, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, implied Bucky Barnes/Alexander Pierce, lol no idea why this took me three months to write, uhhhh hey who wants some fuckin' angst?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 09:40:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21195560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckybleeds/pseuds/buckybleeds
Summary: Alexander Pierce uses educational aid Bucky Barnes to teach Brock Rumlow about hierarchy; Rumlow learns his lesson well.*to the tune of cha-cha slide* "EVERYBODY START TO CRY





	Gods and Men

**Author's Note:**

> This is just, like, SO rapey and angsty. So. Heads up.

2003

Against a backdrop of golden sands and a deliriously blue sky the Asset shone like sunlight through smoke; beautiful and blinding and shifting in the breeze. Soon it would be done with its mission and it would sit in a van, flecked with blood and stained by soot and as still and empty-eyed as a marble saint. 

It was beautiful to see in action, holy and terrifying. 

Brock had worked with the Asset only a handful of times since joining Hydra in the late nineties. The Asset was special and Brock was not. The Asset came out of storage only for very important things.

Brock hadn't missed the fact that in the last two years the Asset was getting defrosted a lot more frequently. 

He certainly hadn't missed the fact that he'd been sent on its last five missions. Or that he was the only STRIKE commando who had been assigned to all of those operations. 

The Asset functioned perfectly for their sixth mission in a row, just like it had every time he'd seen it. The diplomatic convoy it destroyed never had a chance. Brock smirked. The ambassador should have stayed in the city. It wouldn't have saved her, not once Hydra decided to point the Asset at her, but it might have saved the dozen or so American soldiers tasked with guarding her in this third-world hellhole.

Oh well. Die and learn.

***

It took four hours to get back to something resembling civilization and just as Brock was beginning to fantasize about a hot shower and the local whorehouses he got word that the Director wanted him on a plane with the Asset and back in US airspace ASA-fucking-P.

Just Brock and the Asset. 

He eyed the order, a few lines of text on the screen of his encrypted laptop. 

He'd never traveled alone with it. The Asset was at least three days out of cryo. Field stabilization was useful but unreliable. And it was basically impossible to pin the Asset down and trigger a stun baton against its temples unless it was drugged or held down by half the squad so Brock couldn't exactly implement field techniques on a solo mission. 

He considered his options. 

It wasn't safe to put the Asset in a confined space for 12 hours when it was already borderline erratic. Presenting Director Pierce with a rabid Asset was not likely to be good for anyone's continued health and well-being. 

But if he drugged it stupid and showed up for inspection with the Asset still tripping it would be clear that Brock was a pussy who couldn't manage the thing by himself. 

The Asset was sitting, dead eyed and staring, against the window. 

"New orders, Soldier," Brock said as he rummaged through his bag. The thing shifted its gaze to him. "Just a little mission, just you and me."

***

Pierce met them at the airfield after the longest flight of Brock's goddamned life. 

The Asset had been twitchy and weird when they got in the plane, by the end of the flight Brock was distracting it with orders every ten minutes, telling it to clean its boots or count bolts in the bulkhead, sure that its restless energy was going to end with it breaking into the cockpit and eviscerating the pilot, copilot, and its CO in no particular order. 

He followed it off the loading ramp, hand resting on his sidearm and eyes straining to see a shift in body language that would let him know if the Asset dropped into combat mode. It wouldn't save him, if that was the case, but if he was going to die today he'd prefer to do it with his boots on.

Director Pierce was on the tarmac, striding confidently to meet the Asset. A warning strangled itself in Brock's throat. The Director didn't strike him as suicidal and he'd worked with the Asset for decades - if he could see how twitchy the weapon was but still walked up to it with a smile on his face he knew how to handle the situation.

Brock watched as the Asset stopped before the older man. It was close, right up in the edge of his personal space. The taut muscles of the weapon's shoulders rippled and the fingers of its left hand curled into a fist. The Director stepped forward instead of back, a smile covering his hard face. Brock thought he saw him wink before he spoke into the Asset's ear.

The tension drained out of it immediately.

Like so immediately it was kind of scary.

After hours of waiting for the damned thing to go feral it turned pussycat with a word. Brock scanned its stance, took in the way its face had fallen slack. Like a doll nobody was playing with had switched places with a caged tiger. He took in the blank stare and felt something ugly and sinewy churn in his chest. Something hungry.

The Director turned and started walking back to his luxury SUV, tucking his hands in his pockets and whistling tunelessly. The Asset followed, aimless. The Director looked back over his shoulder at Brock, who had yet to take his hand off his gun and who was still tired, tense, and on edge from the hellish flight.

"Are you coming," Pierce asked with half a smile.

Brock was probably an idiot. The weapon was at least three and a half days out of cryo now. He'd just gotten free of being in an enclosed space with it. There had been a brief, fleeting chance that he'd get to live to see tomorrow. And now he was going to get into a car with a brain-dead Asset and the kind of man who approached it with a smile. Oh well, at least he still had his boots on.

"Yes, sir."

***

"Somewhere between gods and men there are angels. Do you know what makes an angel better than a man, Rumlow?"

"No, sir."

The drive from the airfield had been brief and had ended in the garage of a beautiful brick house. A garage that had a stairway to a basement. A hidden stairway.

"Should have paid more attention in Sunday school," Pierce had escorted Brock and the Asset down the stairs into a wood-paneled room with a long bar and plush leather couches, which Pierce lounged into and Brock gingerly sat upon. 

It was cozy and rich and maybe the worst place that Brock had been in today, the casual secrecy of it grating on him and making him understand that if he died in this hidden, opulent room he'd never be found. Not that it mattered much, he'd never be missed no matter where he died. He was self-aware enough to know he wasn't the kind of man people mourned. 

"What makes an angel precious to the Lord is its obedience. Lucifer fell, like man he was cast out, because he didn't obey."

The Director was kind of a creepy sonofabitch sometimes. 

"And do you know why angels obey?"

Brock shook his head. 

"Love. They love the Lord and it brings them joy to obey Him. They were made only to love and serve him. Do you know what I am to the Asset, Brock?"

On second thought, the Secretary was a creepy sonofabitch all the time. 

"I'm its god, marking the rise and fall of every sparrow, meeting it with love and wrath."

The Asset's gaze stayed hollow as it rested on its knees and watched Pierce, its face following him like a flower chasing the sun. The Director raised a hand to its head and stroked its greasy hair, still spotted with blood and unwashed from the mission. It smelled like smoke and gunpowder and salt. Its mouth hung open, the thing was too stupid to hold it closed and a sparkle of spit glittered on its lower lip. It would start drooling on the carpet soon if nobody did anything about that.

The hungry thing inside of Brock twisted again.

"You've been working with it more and more, recently. You're good with it, you respect it but you've got a head for controlling it," he smiled. "I'm impressed that you chose to transport it without sedation, and more impressed that you did so without incident."

"Thank you, sir." So it had been a test.

Pierce threaded his fingers through the long hair he'd been petting. He tightened his hand and pulled back on the Asset's scalp, baring its throat. Brock watched its Adam's apple bob as it swallowed, expressionless and open as the Director manipulated it.

"Do you want to learn how to become a god?"

Brock looked at the kneeling Asset; imagined its eyes tracking him, full of fear and adoration. Imagined tugging down that sweet, pink lip and watching its spit run down its chin to splash on the leather of its tac gear. Imagined it waiting, empty, for whatever he did to it.

"Yes, sir, I want that very much."

***

2012, Summer

It hadn't taken as long to learn Russian as Brock had thought it might, but then again he had sufficient motivation.

<Asset, down.>

He couldn't quite remember what it was like in the early days, to be nearly as scared of his own weapon as he was of the enemy. 

He felt the fine tremors running trough the thing as he reached under its hair to release its muzzle. 

It was beautiful when it was fresh from cryo or just wiped, a biddable, sweet thing. His little toy soldier, ready to comply.

But he liked it best like this. 

<Heel>

Its human hand shook as it followed him from the lockers to the lab, its eyes crawled over the corridor, assessing threats. When it was like this it saw everything as a threat. When it was like this it was almost clever. 

Brock opened the thick metal lab door and followed the Asset inside. It knew to go to the left, or it didn't want to look at the chair and the cryotube.

<Strip>

He'd have to talk to the Secretary about its fuel intake; the Asset spent more time using its resources these days and it was getting a little skinny. Not weak, though. The damned thing was as strong as ever.

<Up>

Which made Brock glad that the restraints on the table it was climbing onto were reinforced with adamantium and an inch thick where he closed them over the Asset's wrists and ankles.

Brock pulled his wallet out of his pants and set it on the gleaming steel surface beside the assassin's right knee, running his hand up over its trembling leg and flank before approaching its face.

"Do you know where you are, doll?"

The Asset could be given simple orders in Russian by anyone, more complicated orders in Russian by members of Strike. Handlers knew the Russian words to make it do anything they wanted, program it for missions or play. But it still spoke and understood English, especially a few days out of the cold.

Rumlow liked the little fold between its brows when he asked it questions, letting his vowels broaden and dropping consonants. He liked the ghosts on its face when he brought bits of New York to tease at the tattered edges of its memory.

"Look at me, sweetheart."

Its eyes darted up to meet Brock's heated gaze, then dropped to the shining surface of the table and the thick bands around its limbs. The crease on its forehead deepened.

"Sarge, where are we," Rumlow growled, letting a little battlefield energy creep into his voice. He let the Asset mull that over while he hopped up behind it and opened his pants. It didn't exactly shy away from him but its skin went still; conscious and upset, like a horse that's stopped trying to twitch away a fly at the sight of a snake.

<Stay still.>

It was so terrifyingly good at staying still. He liked to make that difficult.

"Bucky," he moaned, low and throaty. It didn't move but its focus seemed to sharpen; something about the set of its jaw or flare of its nostrils said that the Asset was cracking.

Brock tugged a small bottle out of a hip pocket and wet his hand with its contents, using his other hand to tug his boxers down while he slicked lube over his cock, wiping the excess on the rock-still Asset.

He reached down with his clean hand and flipped open his trifold wallet, gently easing out a piece of shiny, stiff paper.

Such a little thing.

"Bucky," he moaned again, leaning down over the Asset's back. His wet hand lifted his cock and adjusted its angle minutely against the soft, hairless skin behind the Asset's balls until he could feel the sweet, hot dip of its entrance against the blood-warm throb of his member.

He set the photo down very carefully, leaving it where it wouldn't get wet or crushed in the next hour.

<Look at it,> he growled, grinning, and waited for Sargent Barnes to come home from the war.

It never took long, which always amazed him.

After all these years, after all they'd done to it. After everything, Bucky Barnes couldn't stay still when he was looking at Steve Rogers.

"Wha-" it started to say, then bent its elbows to get a closer look. Brock smiled a little, counting down the seconds, knowing it would see the color first. Then it would want to believe the pale blue cast to Rogers' skin was because of the shitty underground lights. Then it would accept the reality of the image, and then - 

It hissed and jerked against him, trying to pull away from the awful sightlessness of Rogers' frozen stare; it got to look away from the picture but its movement drove it back onto the head of Brock's delighted cock. He darted his hands out like vipers, locking around the Asset's hips and pulling it back hard onto him, sucking in a deep wet breath as its body swallowed him and spasmed around the intrusion.

"Fuck- I-," the damned thing was never eloquent but it was always particularly at a loss for words when Brock took it to the chair. "Who the fuck -" it tried to writhe away from him and its breath caught in a pained grunt as he yanked it back against him even harder. It choked and twisted and took him in like it had to, because there was nowhere else for it to go, because that's what it was made for.

"Ste-" it started, but lost its voice as Brock thrust hard inside of it.

"I think he's pretty like that," Rumlow said, drawing back and shoving in in hard little thrusts. The Asset's limbs strained against the thick manacles. "The blue brings out his eyes, doesn't it?"

"What did you do to him," the Asset whimpered, "where is - goddamnit - wh-what do you want from me?" 

It was bucking its hips and gritting its teeth, starting to fight back in earnest, its body clenching around Rumlow with a grip that left him breathless at the intensity of the sensation. The Asset lost interest in fighting off the intrusion to its body and focused on the strength in its limbs; it started growling, a nearly subsonic noise that couldn't quite cover the sound of the manacle on its left wrist beginning to pull away from the table.

<Forgiveness,> Brock whispered into its ear just before the metal could separate.

Jesus Jump-roping Christ, it was like fucking the eye of a hurricane.

The feral, snarling sergeant was gone; so was the graceful, obedient monster. The emergency trigger prepped it for wipes or surgery. Its limbs went lax and unresponsive, its mouth fell open, and instead of a struggle Brock sank into the softness of its body without a fight. For a moment he'd been holding a tiger by the toe, riding the edge of death with a smirk and a stiffy. Now he felt like he was sinking into a warm bath - the Asset was blank and sweet and starting to drool, too beautiful and stupid to close its mouth or clench against the body fucking into it. 

He leaned over it and pressed three fingers between its lips and stroked its velvety tongue with his calloused fingers as he languidly rode it. He loved this. He loved this so fucking much, his pretty, dangerous toy transformed into nothing more than an empty vessel, too dumb and hollow to even be called pliant - it wasn't pliant or obedient, it was a cocksleeve. Just a thing like this. Not a person, not really, and it never would be again, not when he could turn it into a fuckdoll with a single whispered word. People didn't have off-switches.

That was the thought that pushed him over the edge and left him pulsing into the Asset's unresisting body.

He took a second to give it a cursory wipedown after he'd cleaned himself up. Murphy and Blackburn were waiting in the hallway, practically bouncing in anticipation. Brock smiled to himself as he walked past them without a word. He made it five steps before Murphy proved that he had at least some balls.

"Uh, sir? Should we -" he trailed off when Brock turned sharply on his heel and glared at him.

Rumlow held the stern expression for a beat before he let it dissolve into a smile. Murphy had dragged Rollins into a helicopter by the skin of their teeth today, Blackburn had tossed a grenade that saved half the squad from impromptu aeration by machine gun fire. They deserved a treat.

"You've got an hour and a half before it's got to be in the chair. I think you two can manage to get it rubbed down and cleaned up for the techs by then, right?" 

Murphy _did _bounce on his toes like that, nearly wiggling like a puppy. Good. It meant something that your team was eager, you wanted them to care about their work.

"Yes sir!"

Brock tipped them a lazy salute and turned away again.

"Good. Have fun. Just remember, you break it you've bought it."

"Yes sir," this time both commandos chorused their agreement together, the last word getting cut off as the heavy lab door closed behind them.

_Good kids_, Brock thought, and wandered upstairs to see about lunch.

***

2012, Winter

It was known, but generally unspoken, that Rogers didn't like the cold. 

Not that that stopped him.

Not much stopped him, actually.

But today he wasn't punching a glacier to take out a communications base or diving into the Atlantic or even sitting on a rooftop looking through a pair of binoculars.

Today it was Christmas and, large blonde pile of guilt that he was, he was out in the cold walking home from Midnight Mass.

Brock, being an idiot and lapsed Catholic himself, was keeping him company. It seemed prudent. Also Pierce had given him orders.

They were in Virginia, a little church far enough away from DC's bustle that they'd probably avoid any gawking. People in DC recognized Steve all the time. It was one of the downsides of having banners everywhere proclaiming that you were a National Treasure documented by the Smithsonian.

People in Podunk, Virginia, might recognize Rogers if he was wearing his dancing girl tights, but probably wouldn't know this hangdog man in a second-hand peacoat if he stood up and started tap-dancing to "Star-Spangled Man with a Plan."

"You don't seem the type," Rogers grunted when they were about a block away from the little church, still several minutes away from the hotel where they'd left their nondescript STRIKE SUV.

"For what, Christmas?"

Rogers chuckled.

"That too, but I meant this. Mass. Church. You don't seem like the praying type."

Brock shrugged.

"You don't much seem like it either. But what can I say? Mom was Catholic. It sticks."

It was apparently Rogers' turn to shrug.

"It's - it does."

"You havin' a crisis of faith on me, Cap? On Christmas? C'mon, big guy. Remember the reason for the season." Brock bumped their shoulders together and scared a little curl of a smile onto Rogers' brick of a face.

"It's hard. It feels - it feels more pretend than it did before the war. The candles and the robes and the showmanship. It's - it's hard to believe there's a god listening. And if there is I can't understand why this was his plan for me."

Brock stopped on the sidewalk and stared, awed and appalled that he was the one who was holding the bag on this particular geriatric breakdown. He arranged his face into a facsimile of sympathy.

"I don't know how much of a plan there is these days," he said, letting his hand land on Rogers' shoulder, "but someone once told me that between gods and men there are angels. And maybe that's easier to believe. Maybe you don't need to hear nothin' about working in mysterious ways. But maybe we all need to hear 'be not afraid' sometimes."

The supersoldier's face crumpled and his shoulder shook under Brock's hand. He rolled his eyes and tugged the taller man in for a hug.

"With all the shit you've been through I'm sure there's at least one angel out there somewhere, trying his best to keep you safe."

Brock shook his shoulder and grinned.

"And with all the stupid shit you pull, someday you're gonna have to ask him for forgiveness."

Rogers chuckled wetly and a frisson of ugly energy prickled in Brock's abdomen.

"Let's get you some cocoa or coffee or bourbon, Cap. I swear, it's so cold out here your lips are turning blue."


End file.
